Chapter 15 The Red Dress
The Red Dress
Eliza
Late August, Saturday
The red dress has been hanging in my closet for three months.
I bought it in May for a dinner Julian canceled.
The restaurant had a waterfront view and a two-month waiting list, and I'd been excited enough to buy something new, something that made me feel like more than a foundation wife.
Then his schedule shifted and the reservation became a raincheck, and the dress stayed in the plastic wrap, tags still attached, another casualty of his calendar.
Tonight I'm wearing it anyway.
I told Julian after the lecture that we could text to make plans now. The weekly limit had given me room to breathe. I want to choose our dates without pretending I don't look forward to his messages.
The gallery opening is small but well-curated, a local artist whose work I actually like, abstract seascapes that manage to capture the chaos of water without being precious about it.
Julian suggested it when I told him I wanted something that wasn't a foundation event, and for once he listened to the spirit of the request instead of just the letter.
He's waiting outside the gallery when my rideshare pulls up. Navy suit, no tie, looking like he belongs in a magazine spread about men who donate to marine conservation. When he sees me step out of the car, something changes in his face.
"You look..." He stops, starts again. "That dress is incredible."
"Thank you." I smooth the fabric over my hips, suddenly self-conscious. "I've been waiting for an occasion."
"I'm glad you found one."
The gallery is crowded but not suffocating, clusters of people with wine glasses discussing brushwork and color theory.
Julian stays close but not possessive, his hand occasionally brushing my lower back as we navigate the room.
Each touch sends a small electric shock through me, which is annoying.
I'm supposed to be cautious. I'm supposed to be taking this slow.
I want to lean into his hand. I hate how quickly that want comes back.
We stop in front of a large canvas, deep blues and greens swirling into something that might be a wave or might be a dream about a wave. I tilt my head, trying to find the composition's center.
"What do you think?" Julian stands beside me, studying the painting with genuine attention.
"I think it's trying to capture something that can't be captured. The moment before a wave breaks, when everything is potential energy."
"Is that good or bad?"
"Neither. It's ambitious. I respect ambitious failure more than safe success."
He turns to look at me. "That's very philosophical for a Saturday night."
"I'm a marine biologist. We're all philosophers, we just pretend otherwise."
"Do you like it, though? The painting?"
I consider the question seriously. "I like that it makes me feel something. Most art in galleries like this is decorative. This one actually has an opinion."
"So you'd put it in your apartment?"
"My new apartment?" I smile. "Maybe. If I had a wall big enough."
Julian has been careful not to comment too much on the rental I moved into this week.
A small place near the water, one bedroom, a kitchen just big enough to cook for one.
He helped me look at listings when I asked, offered opinions when I wanted them, and otherwise stayed out of the decision.
It's the kind of restraint that would have seemed impossible six months ago.
We move through the gallery slowly, stopping at paintings that interest us, debating color choices and composition. Julian doesn't pretend to know more than he does, but he asks good questions, the kind that show he's actually thinking about what he's seeing.
At one point we stand in front of a small piece, a quiet study of tide pools that reminds me of my research sites.
I step closer to the painting. "This one's my favorite."
Julian studies it carefully. "Why?"
"Because it's honest. It's not trying to be dramatic or important. It's just showing you something beautiful and trusting that you'll notice."
"Like kelp."
I laugh. "Yes, exactly like kelp. This artist and I would get along."
We finish the gallery and step outside into the warm August evening. The waterfront is beautiful at this hour, golden light turning the harbor into something postcard-worthy. Julian suggests a walk, and I agree because I'm not ready for the night to end.
We walk along the pier, close enough that our shoulders occasionally brush.
The conversation comes more easily now. Julian tells me about a grant proposal he's been reviewing, actually asks my opinion on the science, and listens when I explain why the methodology seems flawed.
I tell him about the apartment, the boxes I still need to unpack, the nervous excitement of having my own space again.
I glance down the waterfront toward my building. "I'm looking forward to it. Having somewhere that's just mine. I love Naomi, but her kitchen is too small for both of us."
"Text me the address if you want a ride home tonight."
"A ride home would be nice. No surprise visits after that."
"Understood."
We reach the end of the pier and lean against the railing, watching the boats in their slips. The silence between us is comfortable now, the kind that comes from years of knowing someone's rhythms.
Julian shifts beside me. "I was thinking. Next weekend. There's that charity gala Vivian Hendricks is hosting. The ocean conservation one."
"I know the one."
"I was going to go anyway. For the foundation. But I thought maybe... we could go together. As a date."
I consider this. The Hendricks gala is exactly the kind of event I used to dread, full of donors and networking and Julian getting pulled away every five minutes. But it's also not his event. He can't be the host who has to work the room.
I turn toward him. "As a date. Not as your wife doing foundation duty?"
"As a date. I'll introduce you as my wife because you are, but you're not there to work. You're there because I want to spend the evening with you."
"And if I want to leave early?"
"Then we leave early. No questions."
I look at him, at the earnest hope in his face, and feel something loosen in my chest. He's trying so hard. I can see the effort it takes, the constant recalibration, the way he keeps checking himself before he assumes.
I tuck my hair behind my ear. "Okay. One gala. But I'm picking my own dress."
"I would expect nothing less."
We turn and start walking back toward the gallery parking lot, where his car is waiting. The night has cooled slightly, and I shiver in my sleeveless dress. Julian notices immediately.
"Cold?"
"A little."
He shrugs off his jacket and offers it to me. I hesitate for a moment, then accept, sliding my arms into sleeves that smell like him.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
At the car, he opens my door and waits while I slide in. The drive to my new rental is short, only fifteen minutes, and we spend it talking about the paintings we saw, debating which ones we'd actually want to live with.
Halfway home my phone buzzes. I glance down and see Catherine Whitmore's name, which is odd because Catherine and I have never been close.
The text is three lines of poisoned honey: I heard what happened on Julian's yacht and I just want you to know I understand how hard it must be when a husband puts other women first. Margot told me you made him choose between rescuing her and staying married.
If you ever need someone to talk to, I'm here.
My stomach drops. I read it twice to be sure I'm not imagining the patronizing tone, the clear implication that I'm the unreasonable wife. Someone's been talking, and Catherine just told me exactly who.
I lock the phone and slip it into my purse. Julian glances over, but I shake my head. Not now. I need to know how far this story has spread before I drag him into it.
When we pull up outside the building, Julian puts the car in park and turns to face me.
"I had a really good time tonight."
"Me too."
He turns toward me, smiling. "Tomorrow we can get breakfast and spend the day by the water. I've kept the whole weekend free."
I was expecting this. And honestly, part of me wants to say yes, wants to extend this easy feeling into another day, another meal, another few hours of remembering why I married him.
But that's not how this works. Not yet.
I draw his jacket closer around me. "I'm unpacking boxes. And I have some prep work for the trip."
"I could help. With the boxes."
"Julian."
"Too much?"
"A little." I meet his eyes. "Tonight was good. Really good. But I need tomorrow to be mine. You can't assume that one good date means you get the whole weekend."
I watch him absorb this, watch the flicker of disappointment cross his face before he smooths it away.
"You're right." He nods slowly. "I should have asked instead of assumed."
"Thank you for understanding."
"I'm learning."
I unbuckle my seatbelt but don't move to open the door. "I'll see you at the gala. September fifth."
"September fifth."
"Goodnight, Julian."
"Goodnight, Eliza."
I get out of the car, his jacket still around my shoulders. At the building entrance, I turn back to return it.
Julian is watching me through the window, and even from here I can see the want on his face, naked and unguarded. It makes my stomach flip in a way that's inconvenient and undeniable.
I hold up the jacket. "I'll bring this to the gala."
He smiles. "Keep it. It looks better on you anyway."
I go inside before I can do something stupid like go back and kiss him.